


until the day comes dawning

by spilled_notes



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: (I'm not kidding - this is the slowest burn I've ever written), F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: Anne’s report about her visit to Aunt Jo’s for her soiree makes Marilla realise something about herself, something she perhaps should have realised decades ago. And then Muriel Stacy arrives in Avonlea, and in her Marilla unexpectedly finds a friend, the best friend she’s ever had. But as the seasons turn and their friendship blossoms and deepens, just how long will it take Marilla to join the dots?
Relationships: Marilla Cuthbert/Muriel Stacy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitnkabootle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitnkabootle/gifts).



> I've been working on this fic for almost 9 months and it's still not finished, but it's time for it to be out in the world! I would never have watched Anne with an A were it not for kitnkabootle's beautiful ['if I could but know her heart'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668907), which made me fall in love with them so much I just had to watch it, so really this had to be for her.
> 
> Title from Kate Rusby's [Until Morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJoImFUjijY).
> 
> There will be a Spotify playlist for this story, once I get my act together...

_‘How can there be anything wrong with a life if it’s spent with a person you love?’_

Anne’s words echo around in Marilla’s mind long after Green Gables falls silent that night. She’s exhausted – these headaches always leave her so drained – but sleep remains elusive, because of what Anne told her about Josephine and Gertrude, about how wonderful it was to see the evidence of the love and life they’d shared, despite the greatness of Josephine’s loss.

 _Rebecca_.

Marilla hasn’t thought of her in years, but as soon as Anne said that – as soon as Marilla realised Josephine Barry spent her life with another woman, _loved_ another woman – she sprang fully formed into her mind, just as she’d looked the last time Marilla saw her, decades ago, the day she left Avonlea and Marilla’s heart felt like it had been torn in two, so much worse than she had felt when John Blythe left.

_I loved her._

It comes unbidden from nowhere, but somehow Marilla knows that it’s right. Tears spring to her eyes at the memory of losing her dearest friend, gone off to the mainland to start a new life with her husband, leaving Marilla far behind. Even then she’d known Rebecca’s leaving had hurt too much, had known to hide it from Rachel, even if she hadn’t known why.

Marilla’s certain it should be a shock to realise this about herself. Rachel would no doubt be shocked – scandalised, even. But she just feels as though something has slotted into place, some stubborn piece that has been slightly out of alignment her entire life finally sitting where it belongs. It’s not unlike when she wakes after a headache and the world returns to full focus, her eyes and ears and mind clear again.

 _I loved her_ , she thinks again, imagining Rebecca’s warm brown eyes and chestnut hair, and knows in her soul that it’s true.

When Marilla opens her eyes the following day her head is clear, vision and hearing and thought restored to normal. She gazes out across the snowy fields, takes a deep breath of air chilled by the window glass and smiles.

Her head is clear, and so is her heart.

 _I loved her_ , she thinks, and it still feels just as right in the bright light of morning as it did in the darkness last night.

* * *

Rebecca sneaks into Marilla’s mind again the instant she steps into the schoolroom behind Anne. For a moment, the children chattering around her are replaced by herself, Rachel, John Blythe, Thomas Lynde, Rebecca.

‘Miss Cuthbert. This is a surprise.’

At Miss Stacy’s voice the memory vanishes, and Marilla finds both the teacher and Anne looking at her expectantly.

‘Yes, well Anne has quite the story to report regarding her essay, and was concerned you wouldn’t believe her. I know I wouldn’t, had I not seen the evidence with my own eyes.’

‘Anne?’

As Anne tells the tale of her missing essay, with much flourishing but never actually straying from the truth, Marilla looks around the room and sees how unlike the schoolroom of her childhood it is – so different it hardly looks like a schoolroom at all. Gone are the rows of desks and chairs, all moved to the sides of the room under the windows, the children gathering to sit on the floor in the empty space surrounding the stove instead. In the corner in front of the blackboard hangs a skeleton and Marilla peers at it, wonders if it’s real, wonders if Anne is going to develop a fascination with the inner workings of the body and if her kitchen is destined to become an anatomy room.

And, of course, there’s Miss Stacy herself, about as far from old Mr Isaacs at it’s possible to get. Marilla glances surreptitiously at the teacher as together they sweep the charred remains of Anne’s essay off her desk and into the wastepaper basket. She knows she ought, like Rachel, to be outraged by her lack of corset, but instead she finds she admires the woman’s defiance, her prizing of comfort over propriety. Not that she could countenance it herself, not at her age – even if she does have a skeleton all of her own holding her up. But Avonlea was far overdue change when Anne arrived, and Marilla finds herself already eager to see how Miss Stacy is going to continue what the girl has started, intrigued to see more of a woman so different to anyone she’s ever known, whose better acquaintance she already wants to make.

‘Would you care to stay and observe?’

All Marilla’s plans for the day, all the jobs waiting for her at home, disappear at Miss Stacy’s question. Marilla studies her face, sees not a mask of politeness hiding a wish for her to decline but rather a genuine desire for her presence. There hasn’t been much space for curiosity in Marilla’s life since Michael died: she’s not about to let this opportunity to learn something new – something undoubtedly more interesting than Mr Isaacs ever taught them – pass her by.

‘Why thank you, I believe I would,’ she smiles, pleased when the teacher smiles in return.

It is, indeed, nothing like Marilla’s school lessons. Miss Stacy is so animated, so passionate, and there’s so much life in her voice as she explains electricity to the children. Marilla can’t help getting to her feet to watch over their shoulders, drawn by the lure of seeing something she’d considered before this morning to be an impossibility: a light powered by a potato. She finds the whole thing quite – well, quite illuminating. She looks at the excited, astonished faces of the children and the wide smile on Miss Stacy’s face and is convinced that, whatever the objections of the surprisingly conservative Progressive Mothers, this is the teacher she wants for Anne – and she’s not afraid to say so.

That day, she offers to walk Miss Stacy home because she doesn’t want to say goodbye just yet, doesn’t want to lose the company of this bright, intriguing woman just yet. And then, when Rachel tells her about the vote to remove Miss Stacy – a conversation that turns into the biggest argument they’ve had in a long while – Marilla cannot fathom parting from her permanently, cannot let the narrow and unfair thinking of the Progressive Mothers and the Board of Trustees drive her away when she has so much to offer their children and their community. Cannot fathom losing a woman she already feels an affinity with, despite all their differences.

 _No,_ Marilla thinks as she walks determinedly to Miss Stacy’s house. _I will not allow this to happen. Not without a fight, at least._

*

‘I believe you’ll be good for this community,’ Marilla says as they walk towards both of their homes after the vote, Muriel pushing her bicycle along.

‘I hope so,’ Muriel replies. ‘Especially after all the faith you’ve very publicly placed in me. I would so hate to let you down.’

Muriel feels exhilarated, and somewhat incredulous about what just happened, half expects to wake up in the morning and find that it’s all been a dream, and in fact she’s been giving her marching orders.

‘Change isn’t easy. And there has been precious little change in Avonlea for many years,’ Marilla smiles, glancing behind them to where Anne is excitedly explaining potato-based electricity to an infinitely patient Michael for what must be at least the fourth time, the light bulb a bright spot among the dark trees.

Muriel smiles too, can only imagine that Anne’s arrival must have been akin to a whirlwind tearing through the Cuthberts’ quiet lives. ‘She’s lucky to have you.’

‘We’re the lucky ones,’ Marilla corrects her.

Muriel looks at the love shining in Marilla’s eyes, bright enough to rival the light bulb, and feels an ache of envy, can only hope she might be lucky enough to find even a tenth of the belonging here as Anne has.

‘Thank you for supporting me,’ she says to Marilla when they reach the point where their paths diverge. ‘And for persuading me to defend myself tonight.’

‘I’m glad you listened. Anne deserves a better education – and a better chance for her future – than I had.’

‘I hope I don’t disappoint.’

‘I’m sure you won’t,’ Marilla smiles, gently touching Muriel’s arm and only drawing her hand away when Anne joins them.

‘Oh Miss Stacy, hasn’t it been the most glorious evening?’

‘It certainly didn’t go how I expected it to,’ Muriel replies. ‘Thank you, Anne.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Anne grins, almost bouncing. ‘Oh Marilla, isn’t it wonderful that Miss Stacy is staying?’

‘Wonderful indeed,’ Marilla agrees, her eyes lingering on Muriel’s for a long moment before she blinks and looks away. ‘Now, come along and let her get off home, she’s some unpacking to do. And after your adventure, I daresay you need some sleep.’

‘I’m so excited I don’t think I could! Goodnight, Miss Stacy. See you at school!’

‘Goodnight, Anne. Goodnight Marilla, Matthew.’

Muriel watches until Anne’s light bulb is out of sight, until her excited chatter is out of hearing, and then heads for home with a sigh. Marilla was right – she _does_ need to unpack. She isn’t so naïve as to think that tonight’s victory means she’s won over all of Avonlea but it’s a start, and has bought her the time to make a better impression.

And at least she now has the support of her students – and some of their parents.

Suddenly her thanks don’t seem enough for what Marilla has done for her, a near stranger. Helping to secure her immediate future like that – believing in her so staunchly – deserves more reward than simply her words. Back home she might have made a batch of shortbread, but if that loaf was anything to go by then her baking is definitely not up to Marilla’s standards.

It comes to her as she’s getting ready for bed, and she abandons her hair half-braided to go back downstairs and rummage in one of the trunks she hadn’t even started unpacking yet, until she finds a package wrapped in newspaper. Muriel carefully unwraps the layers, heedless of the soil scattering across the floor and her nightgown, until she reaches the unpromising looking but precious contents.

‘Perfect!’

*

Muriel knocks on the door, stands back a little and waits, nervously smoothing her skirt. After a moment she hears footsteps, and then Marilla is opening the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Muriel, what a lovely surprise,’ she smiles, and then glances at the package in her hands. ‘What’s all this?’

‘I wanted to thank you, properly.’

‘Whatever for?’ Marilla frowns.

‘For persuading me to stand up for myself. Without your visit, I’m really not sure I’d still have a job – or a home,’ Muriel explains, holding out the package. ‘Please?’

‘Come in, and I’ll put up some tea,’ Marilla relents, reluctantly taking the package from her and ushering her into the kitchen.

Marilla doesn’t reach for the package again until they’re sat down and the tea is poured. Muriel feels irrationally nervous as she carefully unties the length of string and peels back the layers of newspaper, as she takes one of the soil-encrusted bulbs from inside and holds it up, frowning.

‘They’re tulips,’ Muriel explains. ‘I couldn’t bear to be parted from them when I moved, so I lifted them and brought them with me.’

‘Oh,’ Marilla says, putting it back down and pushing the package towards her. ‘I couldn’t possibly–’

‘Please. I want to share their colour and beauty with a friend.’

‘If you’re certain,’ Marilla says hesitantly.

‘I am. I don’t know how well they’ll grow here, but being planted in two gardens might increase their chances. And I’m afraid I have no idea which varieties or colours these are. They all look the same as bulbs.’

‘Well I’m sure they’re all beautiful,’ Marilla smiles.

‘Oh, they are,’ Muriel smiles in return, relief lifting a weight from her shoulders. ‘They won’t flower this year of course, it’s far too late, but they’ll be something to look forward to. I could plant them for you, if you show me where you’d like them?’

‘That’s very kind,’ Marilla says sincerely. ‘There are tools in the barn, just help yourself. And I’ll leave it to you to decide where they should go – that way, they’ll be a real surprise.’

‘I didn’t think you were all that fond of surprises,’ Muriel teases gently.

‘Generally, no,’ Marilla agrees. ‘Although living with Anne has caused me to become somewhat accustomed to them. But I’ll make an exception for something so lovely.’

She meets Muriel’s gaze above the rim of her cup, and Muriel feels warmed from more than just the tea.

*

Marilla has not long pulled a tray of scones from the oven when she hears footsteps on the porch, not heavy enough to be Matthew, not light enough to be Anne. A little flutter in her stomach, she reaches for the kettle to freshen the teapot.

‘Now we just have to wait,’ Muriel announces as she walks into the kitchen. ‘Oh, it smells divine in here, Marilla.’

‘It’s just some scones. I’ll fetch the jam while you wash up,’ Marilla says.

In the pantry, to the sound of the water pump, her hands tremble a little as she reaches for a fresh jar of raspberry jam.

 _What on earth is the matter? Pull yourself together,_ she tells herself firmly as she walks back into the kitchen, to find Muriel drying her hands.

‘Oh, look at you,’ she scolds gently, putting down the jar and reaching to wipe a smear of soil from Muriel’s cheek, chilled and rosy from the cold air.

‘I do tend to get in something of a state,’ Muriel apologises, but Marilla waves it away.

‘Unlike Rachel, I’m well aware that hard work sometimes requires a degree of messiness.’

‘I’m not sure that planting a few bulbs counts as hard work, but thank you,’ Muriel smiles. ‘Here, let me,’ she offers, reaching for the teapot at the same instant as Marilla does.

Their fingers brush above the china, and Marilla isn’t certain whether the warmth she feels emanates from the tea or from Muriel’s skin. She pulls her hand away, feels instantly colder and busies herself with plates and scones as Muriel pours, unscrews the lid of the jam jar and breathes in the sweet sharpness, redolent of summer. For a moment, unbidden, she thinks of Rebecca, thinks of picking berries with her and Rachel, thinks of juice staining Rebecca’s laughing lips.

‘Did you know raspberry was my favourite?’ Muriel asks, the memory vanishing at her voice.

‘Just a lucky guess,’ Marilla smiles, passing her the jar, watching as she spreads a generous amount on each half of her scone. A little too generous, perhaps: it oozes over the side as she takes a bite, leaving a vivid, blood red smear on the side of her finger.

‘Delicious,’ Muriel murmurs through the jam and crumbs, licking her finger clean.

The jam _is_ good, Marilla thinks as she takes a bite, the sweet, deep crimson a perfect foil to the pale, buttery scone.

‘I’ll send the rest of the jar home with you. And a couple of scones.’

‘Oh no, Marilla,’ Muriel protests. ‘I came to give _you_ a gift.’

‘One that was entirely unnecessary,’ Marilla smiles. ‘You remaining in Avonlea was all the reward I needed.’

Their eyes meet, and Marilla thinks she can see the slightest shine of tears in Muriel’s, resists the urge to reach out her hand until she sees Muriel’s fingers twitch on the table.

‘If it isn’t already clear,’ she says softly, her hand gently covering Muriel’s, ‘I’m glad that you’re staying.’

Muriel sniffs and smiles. ‘So am I.’


	2. Chapter 2

It’s only a few weeks later that Muriel finds herself back at the kitchen table with Marilla. She’s got to know her students now, to know their strengths and their weaknesses, to know which are enthusiastic learners and which are just marking time until they can leave school. She’s got to know the results of her predecessor’s teaching, too, something she’s far from impressed by and determined to offset – even if it is going to take up much of her free time.

And so she’s spent her Saturday visiting every one of her students’ homes, discussing the possibility of extra tutoring with their parents. Reactions have been – well, _variable_ , to say the least. She’s hoping that once she’s been here a little longer a few more might be open to the idea, although of course she’s also well aware that familiarity might turn things against her. Muriel is almost certain, however, that the Cuthberts will agree.

 _Almost_ certain. There's just enough doubt in her mind to make her feel anxious, especially after the refusals she’s already received today.

‘Extra tutoring,’ Marilla repeats, once Muriel has said her piece.

 _I was wrong,_ Muriel thinks, her heart sinking. ‘At a time that’s convenient to you, of course,’ she says, determined not to give up without a fight. ‘And that doesn’t interfere with Anne’s chores.’

‘It’s a good job Anne isn’t here,’ Marilla says.

Muriel’s heart sinks further.

‘Or else she’d already be fetching her books and peppering you with questions.’

Muriel stares at Marilla, watches as she sips her tea, sees her smile around the rim of her cup but still doesn’t quite comprehend.

‘Are you quite alright?’ Marilla asks, frowning.

‘Yes,’ Muriel smiles, finally parsing Marilla’s words. ‘I’ve just had a lot of rejections today and it took me a while to catch up.’

‘I wish I could say I was surprised. But Matthew and I want to give Anne all the opportunities that we can, the best life that we can, and a good education is important.’

‘She doesn’t really need extra tutoring,’ Muriel admits. ‘She’s bright, and motivated, and enthusiastic.’

‘She’s certainly that,’ Marilla agrees.

‘But I think she’d benefit from a little more – _guidance_ ,’ she settles on. ‘She hasn’t exactly been stretched intellectually. None of them have, to be honest. But I see so much potential in Anne, and I’d like to try and help her realise it. Marilla?’ she asks, when there’s no reply.

‘We weren’t supposed to have her,’ Marilla says quietly. ‘It was a mistake. She almost didn’t have any of these opportunities.’

Muriel senses there’s more to it, more Marilla isn’t telling her, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she reaches for Marilla’s hand. ‘But she does,’ she says simply. And then, to lighten the mood again: ‘Have you worked out where I planted your tulips?’

‘Not yet,’ Marilla replies, with a tiny smile.

‘Excellent,’ Muriel grins. ‘I was thinking I might send off for some more bulbs for next spring, perhaps some crocuses? I know there are probably plenty growing wild but I do so love them.’

Now Marilla’s smile widens, becomes a proper smile. ‘I’ll confess, they are a favourite of mine.’

‘Well, that settles it then. I shall order enough for us both, and our gardens will be a riot of purple and gold for us to enjoy. Assuming, of course, that I’m still here to enjoy them.’

‘Surely you’re not thinking of leaving?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Muriel reassures her. ‘If I leave, it won’t be my decision. Avonlea has stolen my heart,’ she adds. ‘I just need to try not to ruffle too many feathers, else it’ll be out of my hands.’

‘Please do try,’ Marilla implores. ‘Not at the expense of your teaching, or being true to yourself,’ she adds. ‘But–’

‘I will,’ Muriel replies, squeezing her hand. ‘I promise.’

Their gazes meet across the table, and Muriel feels an odd tremble deep within her ribcage.

And then there’s the sound of boots on the porch, and Marilla pulls her hand back to her teacup and looks away just as Anne opens the door.

‘Miss Stacy!’ she beams. ‘What a wondrous surprise.’

Muriel feels her brain scramble to catch up as Marilla tells Anne why she’s here, doesn’t quite manage it because Anne’s arms thrown around her neck come as a surprise.

‘I’ll go get my books!’ Anne says, already half way out of the room.

‘You’re not starting this instant, Anne,’ Marilla calls after her.

‘Next week, I promise,’ Muriel says when the girl turns around, her face falling. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve worked out a schedule – but you’re to check it’s convenient with Marilla.’

‘I will,’ Anne promises, all smiles again, dashing off upstairs.

‘I’ll make sure she does,’ Marilla says. She hesitates a moment, then adds, ‘but you’re always welcome here, tutoring session or no.’

‘Thank you,’ Muriel smiles, ignoring another tremble. ‘And you’re always welcome to visit me too. Although preferably without Mrs Lynde, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’ll try my best not to inflict her on you any more than is absolutely necessary,’ Marilla says conspiratorially, smiling in return.

*

Muriel sends a message via Anne, just as she promised she would and, just as _she_ promised she would, Marilla approves the time she has suggested she come to Green Gables for Anne’s first tutoring session. When Saturday comes around, Anne brings all of her books downstairs immediately after breakfast and settles at the table to pore over them, until Marilla chases her out to do her chores under pain of missing the start of her session if they aren’t finished by the time Muriel arrives.

Which leaves her alone in the house. The room is already clean but she sets to cleaning it again, unable to settle.

‘I don’t know what _you’re_ nervous about,’ she mutters to herself as she wipes down the table again, cloth swiping around the stack of Anne’s books. ‘It’s not like you’re the student.’

But she _is_ nervous, spends the entire morning flitting around the house, unable to settle to any task. She even has to force herself to eat something at lunch, while Anne sits across from her happily chattering away almost non-stop about all the questions she has for Miss Stacy, yet still manages to clear her plate before Marilla is half way through hers.

They clear up together, Marilla for once trusting Anne’s hands to be steadier than hers with the crockery. For some reason she doesn’t understand hers keep trembling, and she fears slightly for the safety of their plates.

‘May I have a scone, Marilla?’ Anne asks, eyeing up the batch cooling in the kitchen.

‘Not until Miss Stacy gets here,’ Marilla says firmly.

With a longing look at the scones, which Marilla pointedly ignores, Anne goes back to her books. Marilla watches for a moment, envies her ability to focus despite the fact that she’s fizzing with anticipation, wonders if she’d have found school so exciting if she’d had a teacher like Muriel at Anne’s age.

Not that it would have mattered, not that it would have changed anything. She could have been the most intelligent, enthusiastic student, but she still wouldn’t have had the opportunities and Matthew would still have needed her, and that’s that. No point wishing things had been different.

There’s a knock at the door, and Anne jumps up. Marilla smooths her skirt, feels her nameless anxiety disappear when Muriel walks in and smiles at her.

‘ _Now_ may I have a scone?’ Anne asks as Muriel takes off her coat and gloves.

‘That all depends on whether Miss Stacy would rather have tea now or when you’ve finished,’ Marilla says, her eyes on the teacher, whose smile has widened at the mention of baked goods.

‘It would probably be more prudent to wait,’ Muriel replies, with clear reluctance. ‘However, that would likely make me late to the Barry’s. We’ll just have to be careful not to smear jam all over the books,’ she says conspiratorially to Anne.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ Marilla says, smiling to herself. She can’t imagine Anne’s books are going to remain smear free, suspects Muriel’s might not either if her generous spreading of jam last time is anything to go by.

 _And her tendency to get covered in dirt or oil – or probably ink_ , Marilla thinks as she sets the kettle to boil, prepares the teapot, plates three scones. In the other room, Anne is already firing questions at Muriel, far faster than she could possibly answer them. And then she hears Muriel’s voice, just as fast and passionate as Anne’s, thinks Anne might finally have met her match when it comes to both curiosity and loquaciousness.

 _Kindred spirits indeed,_ she thinks with a smile when she walks back in to find them with their heads bent close over a book, when they both look at her at the same time and their faces light up at the sight of the scones.

Marilla sits at the other side of the table and takes up some sewing from her basket. But despite her intention to spend the next hour working through the pile of mending, her hands soon lie idle in her lap.

To start with, it’s because she’s impressed by the way Muriel deals with Anne’s tendency to run wild along tangent after tangent and to get caught up in flights of fancy, the way she subtly and skilfully guides her back towards the topic at hand without Anne even noticing.

And then it’s because of the way Muriel expounds on the planets. Marilla has never given much thought to celestial bodies beyond the sun and the moon, and the stars they can see wheeling slowly across the sky night after night. She has a brief flash of memory, of staring up at the stars with Rebecca, of joining the bright pinpricks of light into patterns and shapes, like the game they had played as children of finding pictures in the clouds. Of staring up at the stars after Rebecca left, the pinpricks smeared by her tears, wondering if Rebecca was looking up at them too.

It’s gone almost as soon as it arrived, and she’s back in this moment, hearing Anne perfectly recite the names of the planets, all eight of them, names that Marilla only barely recognises, names she never learned at school. Neptune had scarcely even been _discovered_ when she was at school. She hasn’t missed the information, could happily have gone the rest of her life not knowing any of this. And yet.

And yet.

Now here she is, rapt, would willingly sit and listen to Muriel speak about orbits and comets and moons all afternoon. She even dares to ask a question, doesn’t know whether she or Anne or Muriel is more surprised, and feels something she doesn’t know how to name when Muriel looks at her for the full length of her answer.

It changes, after that. Muriel begins to look at her more often, begins to include her, as if she’s teaching both of them. Marilla feels somewhat adrift – her own schooling entirely failed to cover astronomy, after all – but she feels herself get swept along in all the enthusiasm on the other side of the table, just like she did in Muriel’s lesson on electricity.

And then Muriel glances at her watch. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she exclaims. ‘Where has the time gone? I should have been at the Barry’s a quarter of an hour ago.’

As Muriel scrambles to gather her books and papers, Marilla feels a heavy weight of disappointment. It feels like Muriel only arrived mere minutes ago, but she’s been here well over an hour, and Marilla wishes for nothing more than to keep her here.

 _Foolish woman_ , she thinks, hurrying into the kitchen to wrap some scones for Muriel before the teacher vanishes.

‘For me?’ Muriel asks when Marilla holds them out to her.

‘No, for Mrs Barry,’ Marilla replies drily. ‘Of course they’re for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Muriel smiles. ‘And I’m so sorry for getting carried away and losing track of time like that.’

‘No need to apologise,’ Marilla says. ‘I’m sure Anne would gladly have kept you here all afternoon.’

‘And you?’ Muriel asks quietly, her eyes fixed on Marilla’s.

‘I wouldn’t have complained,’ she replies. ‘I’d never complain about your company.’

*

When she gets home that evening, Muriel sits down with her schedule and adjusts it.

‘I really ought to have predicted needing longer at Green Gables,’ she says to herself. ‘What with Anne’s abundant enthusiasm.’

Adding some more time is simply for that reason, and that reason alone.

But it’s Marilla she’s thinking of as she inserts an extra half hour between Anne and Diana. And it’s Marilla she’s thinking of when she dismounts her bicycle to open the gate to Green Gables and walks up to the door the following Saturday.

This week, Marilla has placed a plate of thin little cookies sandwiched together with jam in the middle of the table, is already pouring water into the teapot as she and Anne sit down. For a moment Muriel is worried Marilla won’t be joining them but she sits too, and though her basket of mending is beside her and she takes up a sock to darn, Muriel’s certain she doesn’t sew a single stitch.

Even with the additional time she allowed, and even with her pocket watch on the table right in front of her, Muriel overruns again, so caught up in answering questions from both Anne and Marilla, in pouring as much information as possible into two open, curious minds.

‘Would it be terribly inconvenient,’ she asks when Marilla hands her a package of cookies to take home with her, ‘if I were to call later next week? That way, I won’t have to go on to the Barry’s afterwards.’

‘We’re keeping you too long,’ Marilla frowns.

‘No,’ Muriel says quickly. ‘I enjoy my time here. It’s such a joy to have such an inquisitive and attentive student – and parent. I just don’t want Mrs Barry to hate both of us because I’m continually late to tutoring sessions _I’ve_ organised.’

Marilla says nothing as she silently searches Muriel’s face. ‘Later will be just fine,’ she says eventually.

Muriel smiles all the way to the Barry’s, smiles again when she fishes the slightly crushed and oozing cookies out of her bag for an evening snack with her book.

*

Calling at Green Gables later works well, for a few weeks at least. Until Muriel forgets that it’s Ruby’s birthday, that all of the girls have been invited for afternoon tea. She doesn’t remember until she calls at the Barry’s and finds Diana isn’t there, feels somewhat embarrassed under Mrs Barry’s gaze – one that clearly communicates her disbelief that the woman teaching her daughter has failed to remember something she was reminded of only the day before.

It leaves her at something of a loss, as she pushes her bicycle away from the house. It’s not that she has nothing to do. Far from it: she’s still reshaping the curriculum as she goes along, and simultaneously preparing for the start of the next school year. It’s just that she’s got so used to spending her Saturdays visiting students, and going home this early in the afternoon feels wrong.

From here, Muriel can see Green Gables. Her feet follow her gaze, and she’s at the gate almost before she realises she’s been walking towards it. Marilla is probably busy, she thinks. Probably making the most of an undisturbed afternoon – undisturbed by her as well as by Anne. She’s just about to turn and head for home when the kitchen door opens and Marilla steps onto the porch. She shakes a cloth out and then looks up, right at her. Muriel raises a hand in greeting, and when Marilla does the same she opens the gate and pushes her bicycle up to the house.

‘Anne’s not here,’ Marilla tells her, frowning.

‘I know,’ Muriel replies. ‘At least, I know now that Mrs Barry has reminded me.’

Marilla says nothing, just keeps on looking at her, and Muriel realises she has in no way answered Marilla’s implied question.

‘You’re probably busy, especially seeing as I keep on taking up your Saturday afternoons, but I wondered if you might have time for a cup of tea?’

Instantly, Marilla smiles. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

*

Two weeks later, and even though it’s June now there’s a torrential downpour as Muriel is wrapping things up with Anne. It’s been threatening all day, the sky full of glowering clouds and the heavy, oppressive feel of a building storm. Muriel had hoped it would hold off until she got home – and if she hadn’t stayed so late into the evening she would have been right – but with an ominous roll of thunder the rain starts, and is soon sheeting down.

‘Miss Stacy, your bicycle!’ Anne exclaims, dashing outside.

Muriel follows her out onto the porch, but Anne has already splashed through the quickly forming puddles and is pushing the bicycle towards the house. She hears footsteps behind her, feels Marilla’s hand on her arm.

‘No point both of you going out in it,’ she says, having to raise her voice above another roll of thunder.

By the time Anne lifts the bicycle into the safety of the porch, she’s drenched. It doesn’t stop her from hopping back down and lifting her face to the sky, though, the widest smile on her face, her braids flying as she twirls around.

‘Anne!’ Marilla calls. ‘You’ll get soaked through!’

‘I already am!’ Anne laughs. ‘Isn’t it just spectacular?’

Silently, Muriel agrees with her, breathes in the freshness and imagines she can feel the power of the storm’s electricity as they see a distant flash of lightning, stark white against the clouds, and hear the accompanying thunder.

‘Looks set in for the next while,’ Marilla says, craning to look at as much sky as she can without getting wet. ‘You’d best stay for supper.’

‘Are you sure?’ Muriel frowns.

‘I can hardly send you home in this,’ Marilla says firmly, as if that settles the matter. ‘Anne, please come in! You’ll catch your death.’

Eventually Anne relents, and when she goes upstairs to dry off and change, Muriel finds herself alone in the kitchen with Marilla, bustling about gathering ingredients for supper.

‘Can I do anything to help?’ she offers.

‘You’re a guest,’ Marilla says, apparently almost horrified at the thought. ‘And an unwilling one at that, trapped here by the weather.’

‘Well, you’re just as unwilling a hostess,’ Muriel points out. ‘So I’m afraid I must insist.’

‘Very well,’ Marilla says, the put upon tone in her voice belied by the smile quirking the corner of her mouth.

She holds out a potato and a knife and Muriel takes them both with a smile, and side by side they chop vegetables, the rain the only sound between them.

*

It’s still raining when Matthew gets in, looking like he’s soaked to the skin and in danger of catching a chill. Marilla tries not to let the worry into her voice – worry that she feels every time he overexerts himself, or becomes angry, or does anything that might strain his heart – but the look Muriel gives her across the kitchen suggests she hasn’t been entirely successful. To her credit, though, she doesn’t mention it, doesn’t ask what’s behind it, doesn’t make Marilla articulate the fear of losing her brother that is her near constant companion, however much she tries not to think about it.

Instead, Muriel talks, fills the silences between rolls of thunder with words that mostly don’t require Marilla to respond. In the last few years, Marilla thinks, this kitchen has heard more words than it has in the rest of her life put together, what with Anne and now Muriel. What surprises her more than anything is that she wouldn’t have it any other way, that sitting down for supper and listening to the pair of them talk while she and Matthew barely contribute a word feels like the most natural thing in the world.

‘Would you like to stay for supper again next week?’ it makes her ask Muriel as she’s preparing to leave, the rain having passed over while they were eating.

Muriel turns from putting her books into the basket on the front of her bicycle, gives her an almost interrogating look that Marilla imagines she uses on students when trying to establish if they’re being truthful or not.

‘This isn’t because I feel obliged,’ Marilla says quietly, before Muriel can follow the look with a question. ‘I enjoy your company – we all do. But you shouldn’t feel obliged either. I won’t be offended if you say no.’

‘I enjoy your company too,’ Muriel says, smiling. And I’d be delighted to accept.’

Marilla smiles too, stands there on the porch and watches until Muriel is through the gate and then out of sight, a warm and contented feeling filling her.


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow, the end of the school year arrives. Muriel still has her tutoring sessions with Prissy Andrews and the other older students who are leaving, adds a few more to make sure they’re going to be ready for the Queen’s entrance exams, but other than that her days are suddenly empty.

But while she has all of this time yawning in front of her, everyone else now has _less_ time, even though the days are longer, because of the harvest. Most of her students are, of course, involved, and most of their parents can’t – or won’t – free them from their chores for what they see as unnecessary extra tutoring. Not that many of the children _want_ to be spending any free time they have over the summer inside with her anyway – apart from dear Anne, of course.

So Muriel splits her time between her empty cottage alone and her near empty schoolroom with the oldest students, finishing her preparations for the following year, trying to balance what she wants to do – what she feels her students need to know – with what she thinks the Board and the Progressive Mothers will accept. In between she takes long walks and bicycle rides around Avonlea – and visits Green Gables. Sometimes she talks to Anne about whatever is on her mind, sometimes she gets roped into helping with the harvest – and sometimes, when Anne is off with Diana, she spends time with Marilla.

Those hours in the garden or the kitchen always seem to speed away the fastest, Anne or Matthew arriving back when Muriel feels like she’s only just got there. It’s been a long time since Muriel found someone she could comfortably spend so much time with: reading to Marilla as she bakes, or kneeling side by side pulling weeds from around the vegetables, or just talking over tea or as they shell peas on the porch. She’d hoped for peace and quiet when she came to Avonlea, hoped to make a difference to the lives of her students, and to maybe find a place she could belong for a while. She hadn’t expected to make a real friend, to find somewhere she truly wanted to stay, somewhere she could see herself staying.

She looks up from weeding between the rows of carrots and onions, looks over to where Marilla is pulling carrot thinnings.

If only Jonah could see her now.

If only their friends could see her now.

 _They’ll never believe me,_ she thinks, wiping her hand across her forehead. _They’ll never believe that this is how I live, that this is how I_ want _to live._

It feels an age ago, almost as if that life of adventure belonged to someone else.

‘When is it that you’re leaving?’ Marilla asks her over tea, drunk sitting on the porch where they can catch the light breeze, cooling the sweat on their foreheads.

‘Next Thursday,’ Muriel replies.

Because, much as it feels like another woman’s past, she’s about to step into a summer adventure: a short visit to her parents, and then a trip to Boston and the Massachusetts coast with some of her and Jonah’s friends. It’s been planned since just after he died, a return to one of Jonah’s favourite places to mark his first birthday without him there to celebrate with them.

For a fleeting moment, Muriel suddenly doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to go back into that world – doesn’t want to leave this one, this new life, these new friends. And then she feels disloyal to Jonah, to the friends who comforted and sustained them both through his illness, who comforted and sustained her when he died, who encouraged her to go on an adventure all of her own.

It’s thanks to them that she’s here, even if being a village schoolteacher on this little island hadn’t been quite the sort of adventure they had in mind.

‘You must miss him terribly,’ Marilla says quietly.

‘I do,’ Muriel replies. ‘But being here helps – being somewhere new, somewhere that’s mine and not ours.’

And it’s true. She knows she will always miss Jonah, knows she will always love him, knows she will always regret that they didn’t have longer together. But it’s hurting a little less with time, with being absorbed in her teaching and her new life. With having students like Anne, and friends like Marilla.

Marilla nods, and gazes out across the fields. Her fingers catch at the fabric of her apron, twisting it in a way Muriel knows means she’s unsettled.

‘You’ve helped,’ she says quietly, reaching to still Marilla’s hand.

‘Me?’ Marilla looks at her, confused.

‘You made me feel welcome here, made me feel like I could belong here. I hadn’t realised how much I needed that.’

‘I hadn’t realised how much we needed you,’ Marilla replies softly.

Muriel can’t speak around the lump in her throat, just smiles and squeezes Marilla’s hand.

*

‘You are coming back, aren’t you, Miss Stacy? I’m so terribly afraid you’ll get swept away in your adventuring, that you’ll fall in love with it all over again and forget all about quiet little Avonlea.’

It’s Wednesday, the day before Muriel leaves, and she’s come to Green Gables to give Anne a stack of books to keep her busy over the rest of the summer. Marilla holds her breath, hands hovering above a fresh tray of cookies, waiting for Muriel to answer.

‘Of course I’m coming back, Anne.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ Muriel replies.

‘Will you swear it?’ Anne insists, and Marilla knows she’ll be holding out her pinky finger.

‘I swear,’ Muriel says solemnly.

Marilla hadn’t realised how worried she was that Muriel might never come back from her adventure, that she might lose this burgeoning friendship, until this precise moment, until relief floods her so fast she feels unsteady and has to grip the edge of the table.

‘Oh, I don’t know which to start with!’ Anne cries. ‘I want to read them all right now. Thank you, Miss Stacy. Have a wonderful trip, I already can’t wait to hear all about it when you get back!’

Marilla hears the thundering of Anne’s boots up the stairs and into her room, knows that she’ll be sprawled on her bed gleefully looking at each of the books Muriel has lent her until one catches her imagination so much that she can’t put it down.

‘You all packed and ready?’ Marilla asks.

‘Packed, yes. Ready? Not quite sure,’ Muriel replies.

‘Surely a few months in Avonlea hasn’t drained the adventurer from your soul?’ Marilla teases.

‘No,’ Muriel smiles. ‘I know I’ll have a wonderful time, and I’m looking forward to seeing my old friends again, it’s just – well, I’d rather like to see what the rest of the summer is like here.’

‘There’s always next summer. If you refrain from organising another adventure, that is.’

Marilla tries to keep her voice level, tries not to betray her worry that Muriel is only here temporarily, that even if she comes back to Avonlea in the autumn she won’t stay long after that, that she’s going to tire of country life – especially when she’s reminded of all that the world has to offer. She sees a flash of chestnut hair in her mind’s eye, feels her heart ache at the thought of losing Muriel like she lost Rebecca.

‘I do so want to see this County Fair that I’ve been hearing all about,’ Muriel replies wistfully, and the image of Rebecca vanishes at the sound of her voice.

‘Well then,’ Marilla says. ‘Next year. Here – for the journey,’ she adds, holding out a package of cookies.

‘You spoil me,’ Muriel smiles, taking them from her.

Or rather, Marilla _expects_ her to take them. What she actually does is take hold of the package, her fingers over Marilla’s, her eyes fixed on Marilla’s.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ she says quietly.

‘I expect you’ll barely have the time,’ Marilla replies lightly. ‘But we’ll definitely miss you. _I’ll_ miss you,’ she adds, more seriously.

Muriel gently presses her fingers against the cloth then releases them. Marilla only draws them away slowly, feels the loss of Muriel’s warmth immediately and clasps her own hands together as a substitute.

‘I’ll see you when I get home,’ Muriel promises.

She lingers a moment longer, and Marilla thinks she’s going to say something else, but she just smiles and turns away. Marilla watches from the porch as she walks down the drive, as she opens the gate, as she closes it and then pauses. She waves, smiles when Muriel waves in return, and then forces herself to go back inside.

*

A fortnight later, and despite how busy they are with the harvest Marilla misses Muriel. She hadn’t realised quite how used to the teacher’s visits she’d become, finds herself half expecting Muriel for Anne’s Saturday afternoon tutoring sessions, half expecting each knock on the door to be Muriel and only remembering that she’s not in Avonlea when she sees that it’s Rachel.

Finds herself thinking of the summer after Rebecca left, when even helping with the harvest and running the house and looking after Matthew and their mother wasn’t enough to keep her from lying awake in bed at night, her heart sore with loss.

*

A fortnight later again, and she still misses her. The labour of the harvest might be physically taxing, but it hardly occupies Marilla’s mind. In fact, the repetitive, mindless tasks provide fertile ground for her thoughts to roam – not to other tasks that need doing, not to the errands she needs to run tomorrow, not to the chores she needs to ask Anne to do, but to Muriel.

Muriel, who is probably having such a good time with her brave, adventurous friends that she hasn’t spared them a single thought since she left.

But she’s wrong.

She meets Rachel when she’s running her errands, steps into the Post Office with her so she can send a letter to Thomas Junior.

‘Miss Cuthbert,’ the clerk says when he sees her. ‘One for you and one for Miss Anne.’

‘I thought you didn’t need to come in here,’ Rachel says, slightly accusingly.

‘I didn’t think I did,’ Marilla replies, frowning as she takes two postcards from the clerk.

One glance at the image on the top card is enough for her to know who they’re from, enough to make her slip them into her basket before Rachel finishes her business and tries to sneak a look at them, much as she wants to turn them over and read the contents immediately.

Because the picture is of Boston Harbour, which means they must be from Muriel, and though she doesn’t know why, Marilla doesn’t want to share that with Rachel.

The rest of their errands seem to take forever. Marilla’s thoughts keep straying to the postcards in her basket, and she knows Rachel knows she’s distracted, keeps waiting for her to demand to know who’s been writing to her, what’s got her so preoccupied, but she doesn’t. Eventually they’re both finished, and Marilla refuses Rachel’s offer of tea – only made, she knows, because Rachel is desperate to know about the postcards, and Marilla has so far managed to fend her off – and makes her way back home alone.

Marilla stops just before she’s in sight of Green Gables, takes the postcards from her full basket with slightly trembling fingers. The first, the one of the harbour, is addressed to Miss A. Shirley-Cuthbert. The second, of a beautifully laid out public garden is, just as the clerk said, addressed to her.

‘Dear Marilla,

Boston is invigorating and exciting and exhausting. I feel certain you would love the gardens here. We begin our trip along the coast tomorrow, and I must admit I’m looking forward to a little less bustle! Much as I’m enjoying myself, I also find myself missing Avonlea. I can’t wait to tell you about everything I’ve seen.

Muriel.’

Marilla reads the short message once, reads it again, smooths her thumb across the ink and smiles.

Muriel hasn’t forgotten them.

As soon as she gets home Marilla goes upstairs, props her postcard against the mirror while she removes her hat and shawl, while she puts both neatly away. Part of her wants to leave it there, where she can see it every time she walks into the room, every time she sits to pin her hair. But, just like she didn’t want to share it with Rachel, Marilla also doesn’t want to share it with her family, even though Muriel is a friend to all of them, even though there’s nothing remarkable about the card or the message.

So instead she picks it up, reads the message again and imagines Muriel writing it, then tucks it inside the copy of _Jane Eyre_ that Josephine Barry gave to Anne, replacing the fraying piece of ribbon she’s been using as a bookmark.

Anne, Marilla’s complete opposite as she so often is, reads Muriel’s message on her postcard out loud, passes it around so they can all see it, talks about what she knows about Boston and how much she wants to travel when she’s older, how Muriel is a role model to her in her adventuring as well as in so many other ways.

Marilla makes no mention of her own card. When the conversation moves on she feels a little foolish, knows it’s too late to mention it now; it would be odd, would make it seem like she had something to hide. But at the same time she feels warm inside at the thought of it being her secret – hers alone – tucked safely into the book on her nightstand, where only she will see it.

When she goes to bed that night, _Jane Eyre_ falls open naturally to where Muriel’s postcard sits. Marilla takes it out, looks at the picture of the gardens and imagines Muriel standing there looking at the same view in person, imagines Muriel finding the postcard and thinking of her. She turns it over, reads it again and smiles, then places it on her lap while she reads a few pages.

She reads it every night, even though she doesn’t need to, even though she knows every word by heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to listen to what I've been listening to on repeat while writing this, you can find the playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7akldlVa0oCPcjByj4ZEsH?si=qj22l6oqSLSzm-Fz5HSQ4g).

It’s late when Muriel gets back, exhausted from travelling. She looks around her cottage, sighs and smiles.

‘It’s good to be home,’ she says to the quiet, empty room, and then yawns.

Unpacking anything can wait, she decides, and heads straight for bed.

She forgets to close the curtains, and the sun rouses her far earlier than she really wants to be awake. She lies still for a long moment, revelling in being in her own bed, on her own again after having spent the past weeks constantly surrounded by others.

_I used to live like that_ , she thinks as she stretches out muscles still sore from the long journey back to Avonlea.

Now she can’t imagine being anywhere else, can’t imagine not being surrounded by this stillness, not being able to hear the birds just outside her window. Can’t imagine not spending her time in this place, with these people.

That thought propels her out of bed and to her closet, to find something suitable for church. She doesn’t have all that many options but it takes her longer than it should to settle on an outfit.

As usual, she’s one of the last to arrive, just barely on time thanks to her indecision and the way she lingered on the walk over, reacquainting herself with her route, revelling in how summer has changed the trees while she’s been away. But finally she slips into what has become her seat, sharing a pew with Gilbert and Bash and Mary, smiles when they welcome her back. She hears the sudden rise in the susurration of quiet conversations around the room, smiles as other students and parents turn around to look at her. But she keeps glancing towards the Cuthberts’ pew, smiles widely when Anne twists in her seat and grins at her, feels her heart flutter and then settle when Anne nudges Marilla and she looks around at her too.

The service feels even longer than usual and Muriel regrets coming, wishes she’d just allowed herself to spend the morning wandering instead and arrived as everyone was leaving the church: she’s here for the people, after all, not for the Minister’s droning sermon which, if she were listening properly, she would no doubt find denounces some aspect or other of her own life.

‘Miss Stacy!’

Muriel turns from Bash and Mary just in time for Anne to collide with her, arms wrapping around her. The girl seems to have shot up while Muriel has been away, and she wonders what else she’s missed.

‘It’s good to see you too, Anne,’ Muriel smiles.

‘Did you have the most glorious adventure? Your postcard made it sound like you were. And the picture,’ Anne rushes on, before Muriel can say a word. ‘Oh, it made me feel like I was there. Boston is at the very top of my list of places I want to visit when I go on my own adventures. Was it really as incredible as it looks?’

‘It was certainly quite the sight,’ Muriel replies.

‘You _have_ to tell me all about it,’ Anne insists. ‘You should come for lunch. Marilla, can Miss Stacy come for lunch?’

‘Has Miss Stacy been consulted about this?’ Marilla asks dryly. ‘You look fair ready to drop,’ she adds, studying Muriel and no doubt seeing the lingering tiredness from her journey home. ‘Perhaps dinner instead – or tomorrow, if you’d prefer? If you’d like to come, that is.’

‘I would like to, very much. Would this evening suit you?’

Marilla nods. ‘It’s nothing fancy,’ she warns – as if Muriel doesn’t already know how they eat, as if Muriel has never shared a meal at Green Gables before.

‘Sounds perfect,’ Muriel smiles, and then has to stifle a yawn.

‘Go on, off home with you and have a nap,’ Marilla says fondly, her fingers just brushing Muriel’s arm.

‘Your mother is full of excellent ideas,’ Muriel says to Anne in a stage whisper. She glances up to see a shocked little smile on Marilla’s face, realises Marilla may never have been referred to as a mother before. ‘I’ll see you later. And I _might_ have a little treat from my travels,’ she adds teasingly, watching Anne’s face light up.

*

It’s Matthew who opens the door for her, who shows her into the kitchen where Marilla is standing over a pot on the stove.

‘Feeling better?’ she asks when she turns around, spoon in hand.

‘Much, thank you,’ Muriel smiles. ‘What is that? It smells wonderful.’

‘It’s just soup,’ Marilla replies. ‘I did warn you it wouldn’t be fancy.’

‘I wasn’t expecting fancy. But after days of eating while travelling, I think this is just what I need.’

‘Miss Stacy, you’re here!’ Anne exclaims, her arrival in the room heralded by a clatter of boots. ‘I’ve missed your visits so much.’

‘Did you enjoy the books I lent you?’

‘Oh, so much,’ Anne says emphatically.

Muriel listens as she launches into raptures, pays close enough attention to be able to both ask and answer questions. Her eyes keep straying to Marilla, though, as she finishes and then ladles out the soup. As they eat, the conversation turns to her trip. Between spoonfuls of soup and bites of bread she tells them all about her friends and her brief stop in Toronto; about Boston, about the Botanical Museum and the Museums of Comparative Zoology and Natural History and Fine Art; about Cape Cod’s coastline of beaches and sand dunes and cliffs, about the seals bobbing in the sea and the birds wheeling overhead; answers all of Anne’s pressing enquiries about each of these in as much detail as she can. Between this and Marilla and Matthew’s quiet presence, Muriel feels her soul settle, the lingering vibrations of travel finally dissipating.

_I feel at home_ , she thinks, as she and Anne insist on clearing the table and washing the dishes, despite Marilla’s protestation that Muriel is their guest.

‘Hardly!’ Anne scoffs. ‘She’s here so often – or she was, anyway. Abandoning us to go on an adventure doesn’t change that.’

Muriel intends to leave after that, to leave the Cuthberts’ to have the remainder of their Sunday evening in peace, but when Marilla asks if she’d like a cup of tea there’s a hopeful look in her eyes that Muriel is unwilling to dispel, quite aside from Anne’s wish for her to stay. So she allows herself to be shepherded into the parlour and onto the sofa, Anne sitting on one side of her and Marilla on the other.

‘Oh!’ she exclaims as she sits down, and reaches into her pocket. ‘I clear forgot about your souvenir.’

Anne’s face lights up even more as she takes the little package from her, as she carefully unwraps the brown paper to reveal the small trinket box decorated all over with tiny sea shells.

‘All the way from Falmouth,’ Muriel tells her.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Anne says quietly, fingers running over the ridges and twists and glossy curves of the shells. ‘Thank you, Miss Stacy.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ Muriel smiles. ‘Actually, there’s something I was hoping to ask your advice on – all of you.’

‘Go on,’ Marilla coaxes.

‘It was an idea I had while I was away – well, actually it was prompted by something one of my friends said, but anyway,’ she stops herself, realising she’s beginning to ramble. ‘What do you think of the idea of a community newspaper? The _Avonlea Gazette_ , written by my oldest students and distributed for free.’

‘A newspaper?’ Anne practically squeals, bouncing up and down beside her. ‘Oh Miss Stacy, I’m already just brimming with ideas for articles.’

Anne jumps up and starts pacing around the room, talking a mile a minute, but Muriel looks at first Matthew, then Marilla.

‘I knew she’d be enthusiastic about it,’ Muriel says quietly. ‘But what do you think? Do I stand a chance of getting this past the Board, or is it a terrible idea?’

‘What would they write about?’ Matthew asks.

‘News and events in the community,’ Muriel replies. ‘Topics of local interest.’

‘Could be a good thing, I think,’ Matthew nods, and looks at Anne, who’s still chattering away, her eyes alight, regardless of the fact that none of them are listening. ‘Might help keep certain young people busy and out of trouble.’

‘I’m not sure anything can keep her out of trouble,’ Marilla mutters fondly. ‘But I agree with Matthew. Whether the Board will, however, is quite another matter.’

Muriel nods glumly. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it and got Anne’s hopes up.’

‘I hope you’re not giving up just like that, Muriel Stacy,’ Marilla says sharply. ‘Why don’t you come over sometime this week and tell me a little more, and then I’ll see what I can do about convincing Rachel. If we can get her on our side, that’s at least half the battle won.’

‘She’s certainly a difficult woman to dissuade, once she’s got an idea in her head,’ Muriel agrees. ‘Do you really think it could work?’

‘I do,’ Marilla replies with a smile.

*

A few days later, Muriel appears while Marilla is pegging out the washing, comes unbidden to her side and helps her until the basket is empty and the line is full.

‘Anne has barely stopped talking about the newspaper,’ Marilla tells her as they walk inside. ‘I think journalist has been added to her ever-expanding list of potential careers.’

‘That girl is going to need a hundred lifetimes to get through all her aspirations,’ Muriel laughs.

‘Well, why don’t we see if we can’t start her off on one of them now? What were you thinking, for the paper?’

So Marilla listens as Muriel outlines her ideas, illustrating them with the sheaf of newspapers she’s brought with her. Her enthusiasm makes her eyes bright, her whole face alight and passion in her voice, just like when Marilla first saw her teach all those months ago.

‘I won’t make any promises,’ Marilla says when she’s finished, ‘but I think Rachel will like the idea. As long as you’re not going to be stepping on her toes when it comes to spreading gossip, that is.’

Muriel looks at her sharply, her mouth already open to protest, but she closes it again when she sees Marilla’s teasing smile.

‘Now, how about some fresh tea?’

‘That would be lovely – if I’m not keeping you from anything important?’

‘You’re important,’ Marilla says softly.

It’s an effort to tear her eyes from Muriel’s but she does, turns away to put the kettle back on the heat, to fetch the tea caddy so she can add more leaves to the pot.

‘Will you tell me what I missed while I was away?’ Muriel asks.

‘Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Muriel smiles. ‘But I’d still like to know. While I was away I realised Avonlea truly feels like home now. I want to know about all the little things I’ve missed, because they matter to me just as much as the big things.’

‘I was worried,’ Marilla says as she pours water into the teapot, ‘that Avonlea would seem too small and dull after you’d been back out into the world.’

‘Excitement is all very well,’ Muriel replies. ‘But it loses its appeal if that’s all you have. Besides, I wouldn’t call life here _dull_ – not with Anne around. And not,’ she adds, reaching across the table for Marilla’s hand, ‘when I have good friends to share it with.’

Suddenly reminded of their boarders, of how they had professed a wish to make Avonlea their home while deceiving them all along, Marilla studies Muriel’s face. But, as always, there’s nothing there but honesty – and she knows Muriel well enough by now to know how poorly she can hide her feelings.

So she pours them each another cup of tea and sits down again, tells Muriel about their summer, about how Matthew narrowly lost out to Jack at the County Fair again but she retained her red ribbon for another year, about how each crop has harvested so far, about the trip Anne persuaded them to take to the beach again (about the same trip last year, when Anne launched herself into the sea and almost drowned, about how Matthew taught her to keep herself afloat, about how worried she’d been that Anne had forgotten and how relieved she was when her head only dipped beneath the water before coming back up again), about all the mundanities of their lives.

‘I’ve missed so much,’ Muriel says with a sigh, when Marilla finally reaches the day before they saw each other again.

‘Nothing that won’t happen again next summer,’ Marilla assures her. ‘Nothing you won’t be able to share with us.’


	5. Chapter 5

Autumn comes, and with it the end of the harvest and the start of the new school year. Suddenly Muriel’s life is full again, even fuller than it was before, what with after school sessions both to begin preparing Anne’s cohort for the Queen’s entrance exams and to lay the groundwork to get the _Avonlea Gazette_ up and running.

Because Marilla was right: Rachel _was_ convinced, and it was only a matter of time until the Board was prevailed upon to follow suit. Muriel can’t help but be impressed by the force of the woman, hopes to never again be on the receiving end of it but for now is nothing but grateful. They’re stuck copying by hand until Muriel manages to locate a printing press, so by necessity these newspaper sessions have to be longer and more frequent, and the paper shorter, than she had hoped. But she has a few leads on old, unused, retired printing presses, can only hope one of her pleading missives is successfully answered before any of her reporter’s hands drop off.

Her weekends vanish too, into marking essays and finishing preparations for the following week, into casting her eye over pieces drafted for future editions of the paper and making suggestions and edits. It’s a good thing she no longer feels the need to give individual students extra tutoring sessions any more, otherwise there wouldn’t be enough hours in the week to get everything done.

But no more tutoring sessions, and precious little free time, means no more visits to Green Gables, no more time in the kitchen or garden with Marilla. Muriel doesn’t even manage to make it to church every Sunday morning, and before she knows it a month has gone by since she last saw her friend. She looks at her stack of marking with a sigh, wonders how much she’d regret walking over to Green Gables now and staying up late to get it all finished.

She’s almost convinced herself that she wouldn’t regret it _that_ much when there's a knock at the door – and, as if the universe heard her thoughts, when she opens it she finds Marilla, a basket over her arm.

‘I know you must be busy, what with the newspaper on top of school, so I don’t want to keep you, but I thought some treats might not go amiss.’

She holds out the basket. Muriel takes it, lifts the corner of the cloth covering the contents to find a fruit loaf and a pile of shortbread fingers.

‘You spoil me,’ she smiles, and thinks she sees the slightest blush colour Marilla’s cheeks. ‘I could do with a break from these essays, if you’ve time for tea? Please?’ she insists, when Marilla looks uncertain.

‘That would be very nice,’ Marilla relents with a smile, and follows her inside.

They drink their tea, and eat some of Marilla’s wonderfully crisp, rich shortbread, over the essays and books scattered across the kitchen table. Despite how meticulously clean and ordered Green Gables always is, Muriel doesn’t feel embarrassed by her mess, knows Marilla knows her well enough by now not to judge her for it.

‘We’ve missed you, at home and at church,’ Marilla says hesitantly.

‘I’ve missed you too,’ Muriel replies, irrationally pleased by Marilla’s words. ‘As you can see, I haven’t quite got on top of things yet this school year.’

‘I hope you’re not working yourself too hard,’ Marilla says, looking at her closely. There’s an edge of concern in her voice that confuses Muriel, coming as it does from a woman who seems always to be occupied.

‘As hard as I need to,’ she replies with a shrug. ‘Unlike my predecessor, I’m willing to actually put effort into my students.’

‘I know,’ Marilla says, reaching to pat her hand. ‘And it’s not that I’m not grateful. I just worry, is all.’

‘You don’t need to,’ Muriel smiles, catching at Marilla’s hand before she can draw it back across the table. ‘I promise I’m eating and getting enough sleep.’

Marilla studies her again, and must be satisfied that she’s being honest because she smiles. ‘Anne tells me you’ve been teaching them about magnets.’

And suddenly it’s just like they’re at Green Gables for one of Anne’s tutoring sessions.

‘I have. What I didn’t tell them about, though, was what Thales said about magnets.’

‘Thales?’ Marilla frowns.

‘He was an ancient Greek philosopher, and he’s said to have claimed that magnets have souls.’

Marilla’s frown deepens. ‘Souls? Why on earth would he think that?’

‘We only have fragments of his writing, so we don’t really know. But one interpretation is that magnets almost behave like they’re alive, like they’re seeking things – iron – out. It’s rather touching, don’t you think?’

‘It is,’ Marilla agrees. ‘And I applaud your judgement on not telling Anne.’

‘No doubt she’d have come up with a tragical romance between a magnet and an iron nail,’ Muriel smiles.

‘Which I could well do without,’ Marilla says dryly. ‘She said you showed them how to make patterns with tiny pieces of iron, too.’

Curiosity has crept into Marilla’s voice now, and Muriel wishes she had her magnets and iron filings on hand to demonstrate.

‘Unfortunately my box of scientific tricks is at school,’ she apologises. ‘But I promise I’ll show you sometime, if you’d like?’

‘I would,’ Marilla smiles. ‘If you have the time.’

‘For you, always.’

*

Muriel goes straight to Green Gables after school the following Friday, her magnets and iron filings safely in the basket of her motorised bicycle. It’s been a long week – they all seem to be long weeks at the moment – and she’s tired, but even though she hasn’t made any promises, even though Marilla isn’t expecting her, the thought of waiting until tomorrow morning doesn’t so much as cross her mind. The breeze on her face revives her a little, as does the prospect of tea with Marilla, in the restorative quiet of Green Gables’ kitchen.

She crests the rise, and there is Marilla unpegging a sheet from the washing line, and Muriel’s heart rises too, the tiredness of the week forgotten.

*

‘What do you know about magnets?’ Muriel asks as she opens a small box, taking out a bar magnet and a little jar of coarse, dark powder.

‘They’re attracted to metal,’ Marilla says, thinking back to Anne’s chatter over supper after that lesson. ‘And they have invisible – rings?’ she guesses, knowing it’s not quite right, ‘around them.’

‘Very good,’ Muriel smiles. ‘It’s called a magnetic field, and we can make it visible using these iron filings,’ she adds, holding out the jar to Marilla. ‘Now, in class I thought it prudent to demonstrate this myself, but I think I can trust you.’

She unfolds a sheet of newspaper and spreads it out on the clean table, and then places one of the magnets in the centre.

‘Now, sprinkle the iron filings around the magnet – very lightly, as if you were seasoning a dish.’

Marilla does as she’s told. To begin with nothing appears to happen, but then as she adds more she starts to see little jagged lines curving from all sides of the magnet.

‘If you gently tap the edge of the paper,’ Muriel says quietly.

Marilla does, and suddenly the lines become clearer, as if they’re coming into focus.

She hears Muriel speaking, knows she’s probably explaining what’s happening, telling her what the lines mean and why they’re there. She doesn’t hear the words, though, too caught in the almost magic before her eyes.

* * *

Marilla is almost half way to Muriel’s cottage when she sees a familiar figure striding towards her.

‘Marilla!’ Muriel calls. ‘I was just on my way to see you.’

‘If I’d known I’d have stayed home and put the kettle on,’ Marilla teases as she waits for Muriel to reach her.

‘For you,’ Muriel says, holding out the basket she’s carrying – the same basket Marilla brought bread and cookies to her in several weeks before.

‘My own basket? You shouldn’t have,’ she says dryly.

‘Ah, no – it’s what’s inside,’ Muriel grins.

Marilla lifts the cloth and sees a dozen or so flower bulbs.

‘Crocuses,’ Muriel explains. ‘I’d completely forgotten about them, but I don’t think it’s quite too late to plant them for spring. If you’d still like some, of course?’

‘I would,’ Marilla smiles as they turn back the way she came and head towards Green Gables. ‘I’ll admit, I’d forgotten too.’

‘I take it that means you still have no idea where your tulips are?’

‘None at all,’ Marilla replies. She can’t help but smile at Muriel’s delight, at the fact that she remembers, at the memory of that unexpected gift back when they barely knew each other. ‘Are these to be a surprise as well, or am I allowed to help you plant them?’

‘If you must,’ Muriel teases, with an overdramatic sigh.

Which is why, when Anne comes home from spending the morning with Diana, she finds them kneeling beside each other in front of a patch of disturbed earth, the bulbs planted and Marilla wiping a smear of dirt from Muriel’s cheek, a fondly exasperated expression Anne knows only too well on her face.

‘You know,’ Marilla says carefully, as they’re washing up next to each other at the sink, ‘you don’t need an excuse to call.’

She feels Muriel’s gaze on her, but keeps staring out of the window.

‘I know you don’t have a great deal of time to yourself at the moment,’ she continues, ‘so I wouldn’t want you to feel obliged to make it a regular visit, but you’re always welcome here. Lord knows Rachel never bothers to come up with an excuse to impose her company on me.’

‘I wouldn’t want to become like Rachel.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Marilla says quickly, horrified that Muriel has taken her words the wrong way. ‘You have never yet been an imposition, Muriel, and, unlike Rachel, I don’t think you ever could be. I merely meant that if Rachel doesn’t need a reason to call, then neither do you.’

She can see Muriel’s smile dimly reflected in the window, finally looks at her and is taken aback by how fond and genuine it is.

‘You do know, don’t you, that I consider you a dear friend?’

‘I do,’ Muriel replies, her smile widening, and reaches for Marilla’s still wet hand. ‘And I consider you the same.’

Muriel only draws her hand away, and Marilla only looks away from her face, at the clatter of Anne’s boots down the stairs.


End file.
